


Microcosm

by impassivetemerity



Category: Fargo (2014)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Fluff, M/M, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-05
Updated: 2016-01-05
Packaged: 2018-05-12 01:16:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5648449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/impassivetemerity/pseuds/impassivetemerity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>If you can't take me at my fake onion breath you don't deserve me at my freshly brushed teeth mouth.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Microcosm

**Author's Note:**

  * For [capeswithhoods](https://archiveofourown.org/users/capeswithhoods/gifts).



It's twelve hours to Cleveland and Numbers is already complaining up a storm, hands moving contemptuously as the bus sails over the darkened highway. Wrench takes it in stride, watching him with a vague interest that he always affords his partner when he gets like this, and the complaints are relatively hard to take seriously when he has the frankly ridiculous doughnut pillow wrapped firmly around his neck.

The pillow is just another thing, another extravagance in the litany of particulars that Numbers always has to have--there's a blanket tucked into the carry on below his seat too, because he'll get cold, inevitably, he always does, and, he signs, _the drivers always keep these buses too fucking cold._ That gets a snort from Wrench, and he tells Numbers that he thinks the bus is just fine in the realm of temperatures.

At least these aren't the Greyhounds of old, with the seats that look like they were designed on an acid trip and with no air conditioning, like the one they spent twenty eight hours on to Phoenix one unfortunate summer together. They have wifi, plugs, even. And little lights to read by, which is definitely a plus in Wrench's book.

_You have a coat and a blanket._

Numbers glowers at him in response. It's the principle of the matter, he'll sign, and Wrench will huff and turn his attention towards the book he's brought for the moment, effectively ending the argument until Numbers finds something else to bitch about or the brief rest stop they're allowed will give Wrench a chance to nag his partner about his nicotine habit.

His book is good, a psychological thriller of sorts about a house. Or something. It's hard to put it into words when Numbers asks him about it.

_A house made of leaves doesn't sound that scary._

_It's not made of leaves. It's a house that's bigger than it should be. But it's also about a family. And the people that watch the documentary made about the house by the family._

_They made a documentary about their shittily made house?_

_Sort of. You can read it when I'm done._

_No. Sounds too weird._

_Sounds like you're afraid you won't understand it._

_Fuck off._

Wrench's chest moves in a soundless laugh, and Numbers rolls his eyes, head shaking just slightly, cramped quarters not allowing him to express his displeasure with his usual full bodied show of displeasure, marked with a shoulder slump and hands splayed at his sides in wordless indignation. It's almost endearing in a strange way, though Wrench has been frequently asked how he puts up with Numbers' characteristic sourness. (The fact that Numbers has to translate the question never ceases to amuse him, even when he mistranslates to ask why he dresses so poorly or why he thinks cowboy boots were a good stylistic choice, but he knows that Wrench can lip read, and it's almost become their own little game in a way.)

A while later the bus lights flicker on and Numbers nudges him, telling him that they have twenty minutes at this rest stop, and that he's going to smoke. Wrench stands, stooping so he doesn't hit the roof of the bus with his head, debating on following his partner off the bus as he watches him climb off from the window, staying in Wrench's line of sight as he digs for a crumpled pack of menthols and his lighter in a deep pocket, mouth moving in what's probably a complaint about the cold. (It's too far for him to read Number's lips, and with busy hands, he can't sign out of habit.) Soon the cigarettes are found, and Numbers exhales a steady billow of smoke against the night air, cherry glowing a faint orange as he takes another drag on it.

Wrench checks his watch, and there's fifteen minutes left, enough time for a small indulgence, and he places a scrap of paper in his book--a sheet from a notepad from a motel in Minnesota from a job that was forgettable aside from one particular detail, an exchange of words that they wouldn't repeat to anyone else, probably not even to each other. He climbs off of the bus carefully, head bowed, answering his partner's inquiry with a simple wave of the hand, and he can tell that Numbers will be pissed later, but it'll be worth it, he hopes.

There's a small line at the convenience store counter, but it goes by quickly, and the dollar forty nine plus tax only eats a tiny bit into their job funds, but neither of them have eaten yet, and Wrench can deal with an empty stomach for a little longer. It's the little things between them that temper the bickering and get Numbers to smile in the way he did when they were kids, before Fargo got their claws in them.

Wrench politely refuses the offer of a bag, taking the neon yellow foil in one hand, walking out of the store with a vague hint of a smile on his lips, and Numbers is standing by the door waiting for him, cigarette smoldering on the ground. His hands are buried in his pockets, collar of his coat turned up against the frigid breeze. The bag hits Numbers square in the chest before falling to the ground, and there's the smile, blink and it's gone quick.

_They're probably crushed now, asshole._

Wrench shrugs but smiles fondly as Numbers stoops to pick the bag up.

_Thought you might be hungry. Not gonna kiss you with S-C-R-U-N-Y-U-N breath though._

It's probably the cold, but Wrench swears that his cheeks redden a little, and his chest swells with warmth.

_If you can't take me at my fake onion breath you don't deserve me at my freshly brushed teeth mouth._

A ripple of vibration shakes through Wrench's chest, and white breath cuts through the air, and he can pretend just for a moment as he leans in that there's just the parking lot and them under the cloudless winter sky, a microcosm of infinity.

**Author's Note:**

> So, Spencer kinda offhandedly mentioned shipping Numbers and Wrench after I forced them to watch Fargo since I really wanted them to see these two amazing characters in action and here I am in Wrenchers hell and loving it.


End file.
